Page 18 of At First Catch

The docks.

The weathered buildings.

The open bay stretches endlessly beyond the slips.

“Yeah,” I admit.

Her eyes stay on me a second longer. Like she’s waiting for me to say something else.

Even when I don’t, she seems to understand anyway.

Chapter Four

HADLEY

By the time I leave the marina, my entire body feels too aware of itself. Which is ridiculous. I delivered paperwork. That’s it.

A folder of permits. A cardboard drink carrier. A professional errand completed by a professional woman who works in tourism and community development and absolutely does not have unresolved feelings for the man who bought a storm-beaten marina at the edge of Back Bay.

No dramatic declarations.

No kissing.

No reckless decisions against weathered dock railings while gulls screamed overhead like tiny, judgmental witnesses.

Just paperwork and coffee.

And Nolan Pierce standing too close in the late afternoon sunlight, looking like every bad decision I’ve ever wanted to make twice.

I tighten my grip on the steering wheel as I pull out of the cracked gravel lot, the tires bumping over potholes left behind by years of salt air, storms, and neglect. In my rearview mirror, Sweetspire Marina stretches along the water like something stubborn enough to survive out of spite. The docks are worn silver by weather. The old sign hangs crooked near the entrance, letters faded and chipped. Beyond it, Back Bay glows beneath the lowering sun, all rippling gold and shifting blue.

I wave at Sam, the man who currently collects the money from the marina tenants in his makeshift shed-turned-office, as he casts a rod out into the bay.

The road curves closer to town, marsh grass swaying on either side as salty air spills through my cracked window. The breeze carries the faint scent of mud, honeysuckle, and water warmed by spring sun. It should calm me. Usually, it does. I’ve driven this stretch of road my entire life, windows down, music loud, one hand out in the wind like I could catch the whole bay in my palm.

But my mind stays somewhere back at Sweetspire Marina. Nolan leaning against the office doorway. Coffee forgotten in his hand. That almost-touch.

I tighten my grip on the steering wheel. Attraction has never scared me. Chemistry comes and goes. Crushes fade. One-night mistakes eventually become funny stories.

Except this doesn’t feel temporary. That’s the part I don’t know what to do with.

Mom forgot her doctor’s appointment last month. I reminded her. Holt called because he couldn’t remember where he’d left fire department paperwork. I found it. Bailey needed someone to cover the bookstore for an hour. I was already grabbing my keys before she finished asking.

Somewhere along the way, helping became instinct. I just never noticed how rarely anyone asked if I needed the same thing.

Nolan looks at me like he might see through all of that, which makes him dangerous in a way I don’t know how to joke my way around.

The town comes into view as I cross the small causeway leading back toward Main Street. Coral Bell Cove glows this time of evening. Storefront windows catch the lowering sun. People drift lazily along sidewalks with shopping bags, iced coffees, and beach chairs tucked beneath their arms. Tourists stop to photograph the lighthouse bookstore while Bailey rearranges a display outside A Page in Time, her dark hair lifting in the breeze as Crew leans against the railing beside her, looking at her like she personally hung the moon and alphabetized the stars.

Kids race past Sweet Gum Café on bicycles while someone sets up outdoor tables near the seafood restaurant. The whole town hums with early spring energy, that hopeful stretch before summer arrives and turns every road crowded, every restaurant waitlist impossible, and every local feral.

I park outside the tourism office and sit there for a minute with my fingers still wrapped around the steering wheel.

I close my eyes briefly, and the marina flashes through my head. Nolan leaning in the office doorway with sunlight catching the rough edges of him. His sleeves pushed up. His hair wind-tossed. His mouth almost curving when I teased him. His hand lifting toward my face like he forgot for half a second that touching me was a bad idea.

Then stopping.

God. That almost-touch might be worse than if he’d actually done it.